


Dance Like Warriors On A Battlefield

by whoknows



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Gladiators, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 12:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9820673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoknows/pseuds/whoknows
Summary: Down in the arena, the triumphant gladiator places his foot on the back of the loser, holding him there as he waits for instruction on his next move.Killorlet live. It’s barbaric, really, the bloodlust involved in this sport. Louis is pretty sure that if it wasn’t for his distaste for the killing there would be a lot more blood soaking that sand.As it is, his father rarely gives thekillorder anymore. He gives the order to let the loser live. Louis rolls his eyes, turning away. He doesn’t miss the way the gladiator’s eyes linger on him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to [softlet](http://softlet.tumblr.com/), without you this fic probably wouldn't exist. Also thanks to [neozeka](http://neozeka.tumblr.com/) for being generally awesome and holding my hand whenever I ask you to.
> 
> This story doesn't actually have that much graphic violence in it, or that much gladiator shenanigans, to be truthful, but there's some. Hopefully enough. It's also about -10% historically accurate. Enjoy!

“I have no interest in watching gladiator tournaments, father, you know this,” Louis says, not looking up from the plate he has in front of him. He’s not feigning his disinterest even a little.

“Louis.”

Louis inhales deeply, counting to ten slowly. Above him, nothing moves. He has to look up at the end of the ten seconds. “Fine,” he says, pushing the plate away a few inches. “I’ll go, are you happy?”

His father regards him with a mostly placid look. “Ecstatic,” he says dryly, already walking away.

Louis doesn’t glare at his back as he goes, but only because his father would be able to feel it.

 

The arena is packed with people that night, all eagerly anticipating the bloodshed and violence. Louis rolls his eyes, sitting prim and proper at his father’s side, and gets an elbow in his ribs for his trouble.

Ugh. Bloody gladiators. Louis doesn’t understand why people are so obsessed with them. The violence alone is ridiculous, and then there’s the murder.

Louis doesn’t really pay much attention to the proceedings at first, tapping his fingers against his knees and thinking about all the things he could be doing instead of this. The competition is like every other gladiator competition Louis has been to in his life, violent and bloody and completely unnecessary. The roar of the crowd is never ending, loud and appreciative, but it’s easy enough to tune out. He’s had plenty of practice at that.

Except then it gets quiet. Louis looks up, a little confused. “I didn’t realize there was supposed to be a newcomer tonight,” he says to his father.

“Just purchased last week,” his father tells him, patting his knee. It’s a clear sign that he thinks Louis’ comment means he’s going to start paying attention, which isn’t right. Louis hates these things. He’s always hated these things.

Then the fighting starts, and Louis can’t help but watch. The new guy is smaller than some of the other gladiators, leaner, but he’s winning anyway, using his speed to his advantage. It’s no surprise when he wins, pinning the other gladiator to the ground and looking up to the King’s balcony for instruction.

For some reason, it looks more like he’s looking at Louis than his father. Louis rolls his eyes and looks away, missing the verdict entirely, and doesn’t look back again.

 

The banquet that night is like every other one Louis has ever been to, lavish and unnecessary. Louis does the bare minimum to make his father happy, spending most of his time sitting at a table with a glass of wine in front of him. He’s found it’s one of the best ways to get through these nights.

“Louis,” his father says, placing a hand on Louis’ shoulder and squeezing it, “I’d like you to meet Harry Styles, our newest gladiator. He’s the one who won the competition this evening.”

“Nice to meet you,” Louis says, giving Harry’s hand a dull squeeze before dropping it, letting his attention drift.

It’s re-captured in less than a single second. “Prince Louis,” Harry murmurs, low, as though it’s meant to stay between the two of them, “Did you enjoy the fight?”

“Did I enjoy watching two fully grown men beating each other for the entertainment of the bourgeoisie?” Louis asks blandly. “I suppose you could call it that.”

The only reason Louis doesn’t get scolded is because his father has already walked away.

Harry doesn’t flinch. If anything, he smiles, the curve of it slow and deep over his face. “What would you call it, then?” he asks.

Louis looks at him, the way he’s leaning over, his body posture, the blatant _intent_ he’s displaying.

“Let me stop you right there,” Louis says, holding up a hand. “I’m not interested.”

“In what?” Harry asks, arching an eyebrow. “Gladiators?”

“Gladiators, blood sports, you, all of it,” Louis says, taking a step back. “I have better things to do with my time.”

Harry takes a step forward. A small one, but it feels vaguely threatening all the same. “My apologies, then,” he says. “It was nice meeting you, Louis.”

Okay. Louis turns on his heel and walks away, inexplicably unsettled. Fucking gladiators.


	2. Middle

Down in the arena, the triumphant gladiator places his foot on the back of the loser, holding him there as he waits for instruction on his next move. _Kill_ or _let live_. It’s barbaric, really, the bloodlust involved in this sport. Louis is pretty sure that if it wasn’t for his distaste for the killing there would be a lot more blood soaking that sand.

As it is, his father rarely gives the _kill_ order anymore. He gives the order to let the loser live. Louis rolls his eyes, turning away. He doesn’t miss the way the gladiator’s eyes linger on him.

 

As always, the fight is celebrated with a feast that night. Louis sits in his rightful place at his father’s elbow and demurely turns down various offers to dance, ankles crossed underneath the table and trying not to twitch with impatience. He wants this night to be over, wants to be able to go back to his rooms and retire for the night, maybe drink some ale with Stan if he can smuggle it in. These banquets always last well into the night and Louis is tired of them, tired of the sucking up and the fake niceties and rubbing elbows with people he can’t stand.

The scent of a familiar soap drifts into his nose. Louis’ back stiffens, just a bit.

“Would you care to dance, m’lord?”

What Louis wouldn’t give to tell him exactly where to shove his dance. Before he can even open his mouth his father clears his throat and raises an expectant eyebrow at him.

Louis forces a smile onto his face and turns around in his chair. “Of course,” he says, leaving off the title that would normally follow those words. Harry’s face is full of mirth, extending a hand. Grudgingly, Louis takes it, allowing himself to be pulled out onto the dance floor.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to smile,” Harry murmurs, hands just a shade too low on Louis’ body as they dance. Not enough for Louis to call him out on it.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to leave me alone, either, but I don’t see you doing that,” Louis returns pleasantly, leaning into Harry’s turn so he ‘accidentally’ steps on his toes.

Harry’s fingers tighten on his back. “You can lie to me all you want, m’lord, but we both know that you are the only reason I have my freedom.”

Anger surges through Louis’ core. “And this is what you do with it?” he hisses, stepping on Harry’s toes again, not even trying to hide that it’s intentional this time. “You could do anything, _be_ anything, and yet you stay here doing the same thing you were enslaved to do.”

Abruptly, Harry spins them off of the dance floor, into a hidden alcove away from the music and the party guests. As soon as they’re alone he lets go, removes his hands from Louis’ body, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s between Louis and the exit. Blocking him.

“Do you really want me to answer that question?” Harry asks, keeping his voice low. There’s no hiding the frustration in it, though.

Louis’ eyes burn. “Don’t.”

“You know what I’m trying to do,” Harry says, much more gently. Shuffles a little closer, until their knees are touching.

“I know that you enjoy the violence,” Louis says, lifting his chin up to meet Harry’s gaze head on. “I know that you would find another way if you didn’t.”

Harry blinks slowly. “And I know that it’s the fastest way to earn the money I need,” he counters. “And that your father will be more likely to say yes knowing that I can protect you.”

Louis slaps him. He puts the full force of his weight into it and slips past Harry while he’s still blinking, knowing that Harry’s _letting him_. It adds fuel to the fire in Louis’ belly, makes him uncaring of whether he’s making a scene as he stomps his way back to his father’s side.

“You need to _stop_ ,” he says firmly, leaning down so his father will be the only one to hear. “Stop enabling him.”

His father regards him calmly. “Louis,” he says evenly. “You know I just want what’s best for you. What will make you happy.”

He’s so _infuriating_. Louis sucks a breath in between his teeth and spins on his heel, leaving the hall without another word and tears prickling at the backs of his eyes.

He knows, then. The King knows. It shouldn’t be a surprise, and it isn’t, not really, not after the lengths Louis went to to get Harry free, but that was supposed to be the end of it. Harry was supposed to move on, build a _life_ for himself, not hang around beating other gladiators into submission and wrecking Louis’.

The unspoken agreement that his father would allow it to happen if Harry asked clouds Louis’ thoughts. He’s gaining the money, Harry, with every fight he wins, and there will be a day it’s enough. And then Louis will have to decide whether the pain and fear and love and happiness will be worth it, because it won’t be easy. It’ll be the hardest thing he’ll ever do and Louis isn’t ready to decide, not yet.

Because he and Harry could change the entire goddamn world with a union between a gladiator and a prince, but it would come at a price. All Louis has ever wanted is for Harry to have a chance, and with Louis at his side that chance would become something much different than he had intended.

But they could change the entire goddamn world.

 

Morning dawns entirely too early for Louis’ liking. He lies in bed, rubbing his fingers over the fine silk sheets absently, staring up at the ceiling. 

For a while now, he’s known what Harry’s intentions are. Harry has never been particularly subtle about them, just as Louis has never been subtle that this thing between them is purely physical. They fall into bed together sometimes and they have sex. That’s all it is.

Harry has never believed that’s all it is. That’s why he’s doing what he is, participating in tournaments despite the fact that he no longer has to

The thought of it still causes Louis’ blood to heat in his veins. All the effort he made, all the work he put into getting Harry free, it was all for nothing if Harry stays here, doing the same things he was doing when he was a slave. They’re not going to marry, and if Harry wasn’t determined to be so stubborn he would be able to see that. A marriage between them would never work, even if Louis wanted it to. These are all facts.

They’re all facts, but for some reason Louis is still lying here with an ache between his thighs, unable to stop himself from thinking about the last time. The last time the need, the want, got the best of them. The best of Louis.

The day hadn’t even been anything out of the ordinary. Louis had done the same things he always does, Harry had done the same things he always does, and by nightfall they were back in each other’s orbits as though they didn’t know how to be anywhere else. Falling into bed together has always felt like more of an easy habit than it should, and that night had been no exception. It had been easy to let Harry strip him naked, easy to allow Harry to run his hands all over Louis’ body, easy to allow him to take him. It’s always easy.

The hard part is not allowing any of that to happen, and if Louis is going to get rid of Harry for good he needs to be better about stopping him.

Of course, that’s easier said than done. Especially right now, with no one around to distract him, still thinking about the breadth of Harry’s shoulders, the way he pinned Louis up against a wall and held him there, content to kiss him until Louis had demanded more. And Louis had - readily, eagerly. All but begged for it, so anxious to have Harry inside of him. 

It’s still early. No one will be expecting Louis out of bed for another few hours. Getting up is an option, even if no one would expect it. There’s nothing keeping him in bed, no reason not to get up.

No reason except the thought of Harry. Harry’s hands, Harry’s mouth, the press of Harry’s smile as they kiss, the feeling of Harry’s cock inside of him.

They’ve just had too much sex together, that’s why Louis can’t stop thinking about it now. It’s good sex, but Harry is the last person Louis has been with. That’s all it is. Louis woke up hard and now he’s thinking about Harry because he’s the last person Louis had sex with.

That’s - fine. It’s not ideal, but Louis can’t get his brain to stop thinking about it, so he’ll deal with it. His fingers are already resting too close to his cock anyway, low on his stomach, and it’s not like he’s going to get anything done like this. Turned on and aching beneath a thin sheet, desire coiling through his veins.

Sometimes, Harry starts out misleadingly gentle. He’s almost polite about the way he invades Louis’ space, using slow, meandering steps until he’s backed him into a corner. If Louis hadn’t seen him in action so many times before he might even believe the facade. Harry isn’t gentle, isn’t anything less than brutally efficient at everything he does, whether it’s maiming another human being or convincing Louis to have sex with him. Gentleness isn’t in his nature. He leaves bruises, marks, signs of the places he’s been, signs that Louis is constantly having to cover up.

Louis lets his eyes close and curls his fingers around his cock, laying his free arm over his eyes. Everything goes dark and a little hazy with the first stroke he gives himself, lingering and tight. It’s not the way Harry does it when he’s got Louis underneath him on a bed somewhere. Harry would try to claim that he’s capable of being patient, that he could put his hand on Louis’ cock and stroke him idle and soft, but he never actually does it like that.

No, Harry touches him firm and possessive, and it’s no different when he’s stroking Louis’ cock. He does it faster than Louis does when he’s on his own, caught up in the moment, in kissing Louis’ mouth, his neck, his belly, sometimes. It’s sharp and fast and good, the weight of Harry pressing against him, the pressure of Harry touching him. And that’s before Harry gets anywhere near his arse.

Louis breathes out unsteadily, biting back a whimper. If Harry was here he would coax it out of Louis by tightening his grip, almost to the point of pain, and keep stroking him, insistent about it. He’s relentless about it, about coaxing the noises out of Louis, but he’s not here now. No one’s here right now. There’s no reason to be quiet.

He bites back the next noise, too. It feels good, legs twisting in the sheets, his hand on himself, doing it exactly how slow he wants to. If Harry was here he’d laugh into Louis’ mouth and keep kissing him, rub two fingers over Louis’ hole. It would be the only thing he does that’s slow.

He’s not here, though, and Louis has to do it himself, twisting onto his side and dipping his fingers into a pot of oil quickly before slipping them behind himself, circling his hole firmly. It doesn’t take much pressure to ease the tip of one finger inside himself, the oil making it a smooth slide. Nothing about it feels like it’s Harry. Louis squeezes his eyes tighter and keeps going, telling himself it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need Harry to get off. He doesn’t need Harry at all.

Good. So he’ll just - think about something else. Anything else. Sexy things. Things that turn him on. Strong hands and long fingers, skin unblemished by faint scars. Deep voices, people that use Louis’ own body against him, drawing out reactions and feelings he never thought to have. Men who are strong enough to hold him up, hold him in place while they take him. Guys with dark hair who kiss like nothing else matters.

Louis’ thighs shake a little as he adds a second finger. He knows how to fuck himself, and he knows - _knows_ \- that searching out his prostate this early after putting another finger in is only going to make his brain go hazy in a way that’s not entirely pleasant. It makes him unfocused, uncooperative, and he does it anyway, pressing both fingers firmly against it. His thighs shake a little more, and for a few long, almost endless seconds, all he feels is sparks.

It’s how Harry would do it.

The thought fuels Louis on. He powers through the pleasure, panting into a pillow that’s already gone damp with sweat, the hand he’s got on his cock just holding it loosely. Stroking it right now would probably short him out, too much pleasure to contain. He almost feels numb for the time it takes for the sparks to fade a bit, still touching himself firmly, and before he knows it he’s almost there. Tension coils in his spine, and he starts to move his hand again, stroking his cock a little easier now. It’s already warm in the room and he feels hot enough to burn, and all he wants is to come.

He twists himself tighter in the sheets, rolling onto his belly and tucking a third finger inside his arse. It’s a tight squeeze, been too long since he’s had something inside of him. His entire body feels oversensitive and taut, tremble spreading from his thighs up to his belly. With the sheet tight around him like this he can almost pretend that he’s being weighed down to the bed with something heavy, someone heavy on top of him.

Noises spill out of him, muffled by the pillow under his cheek. He strokes himself faster, scissors his fingers inside himself, and thinks about what would happen if someone were to walk in right now. If Harry were to walk in right now.

Louis shudders, curling the fingers he has inside his hole. He knows exactly what Harry would do if he were to walk in on this, and the thought of it has his breath coming impossibly fast.

Harry would come in and he would be nothing short of _reverent_. He’d make sure the door was closed behind him and then stop short where he stood, drinking in the sight. It wouldn’t even matter that Louis is covered by the sheet, it would still make Harry’s breath catch in his throat so audibly Louis would be able to hear it all the way across the room. He would be frozen there for a handful of seconds, watching the vague shape of Louis’ fingers moving inside his own body, before he’d be able to move. Louis knows this with certainty. It’s happened before. Only a couple of times, but it’s happened, and it always ends exactly the same.

It ends with Harry inside of him. Every time.

There’s nothing like it, knowing that Harry’s standing there, quiet and brooding, watching Louis touch himself, even if Louis can’t see it happening. He never stays quiet for long, always crosses the room quickly, joins Louis on the bed with or without an invitation. It’s a habit borne out of knowing each other too well, and Louis is weak because he never even attempts to put a stop to it.

Once Harry’s there, it’s only a matter of time before his fingers replace Louis’. They’re longer than Louis’ are, thicker, fill him up so good it almost makes Louis cry. He’s impatient about it, maybe because he can’t stand walking in on something he hasn’t seen all the way through, slicks his fingers with oil and has them in Louis only long enough to check that he’s ready, and then - 

That’s where the reverence kicks in, to be truthful. Louis chokes back a moan thinking about it, clenching down hard on his fingers, almost cutting off his own circulation. Harry is impatient for the length of time it takes to ensure Louis is ready for him, but once he sheaths himself inside, all the way in, he’s slow and methodical about it, takes his time, wringing out every noise, every reaction. He doesn’t pick up his pace until Louis begs him to, content to just be there, every inch of him inside of Louis’ body like it belongs there, uncaring of the gouges Louis digs into his back as he tries not to ask for more.

Harry makes Louis ask for it. He always does. Louis gets a little delirious with pleasure, sometimes, doesn’t always know what he’s asking for but knows that Harry always gives it to him, whatever it is. Because Harry is incapable of not giving it to him like that.

Louis sucks in another ragged breath and comes on his own fingers. Later, he’ll tell himself that he wasn’t thinking about Harry, necessarily, just how good the sex is, and he’ll spend a lot of time trying to convince himself he believes it.

For now, he just shudders into his pillow and daydreams idly about the things Harry does after he’s made Louis come like that. When Louis is soft and pliant underneath him, he goes back to taking his time, fucking Louis slow and thorough while he doesn’t have the energy to protest, going about getting his with the kind of single-minded determination that’s kept him alive all these years.

This isn’t supposed to happen anymore. Harry is free, nothing hanging over his head, no threat of pain or violence or death if he tries to leave. Louis just has to make sure that it actually happens, that Harry leaves.

He can do that.

 

The wound on Harry’s shoulder is bleeding profusely, blood dripping down his chest slowly. That being said, the cut is shallow, no more than an inch deep, about three inches long.

It’s not luck that the wound is superficial. It’s skill.

Louis doesn’t say anything as he goes about cleaning the wound, mouth pressed into a tight line, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes. He’s angry – he’s so fucking _angry_. Keeps telling himself over and over that he’s not going to allow Harry to keep breaking down his defenses like this, yet here he is again, dressing Harry’s wounds like he has countless times before.

This will be the last time. It has to be the last time.

Finished, Louis lets his hands fall away. That was the last time. He won’t do this any more, won’t let himself fall into Harry’s traps.

“You’re angry with me,” Harry observes, watching Louis take a step away.

Louis can’t stop his jaw from tightening further. He refuses to answer, dunking his hands into a basin of water, sluicing Harry’s blood off of them. Turns his back on the biggest threat in the room, the biggest threat in the entire palace, and takes pleasure in the knowledge that the motion is a dismissive one, that it’s undeniably a reminder of Louis’ status as royalty. He may never be able to win against Harry in a battle of sheer strength, but there’s other types of battles. Battles Louis will win, battles Louis _has_ been winning.

He means to hold his tongue, treat Harry to silence. Nothing riles Harry more than when Louis treats him as though he doesn’t exist.

Somehow, “Of course I’m angry with you, you Neanderthal,” bursts out of him before he can stop it.

The sound of Harry’s footsteps padding against the marble floor is intentional. Louis knows perfectly well how capable Harry is of moving silently. Making noise as he walks means he wants Louis to know he’s stepping closer.

Louis’ shoulders tense. “Get out,” he says. At the same time, Harry says, “Two weeks.”

Two weeks. Before Louis can even begin to ponder what that means, Harry’s hand comes down on his shoulder, misleadingly gently. Not trying to hide the power he has in that arm but not making it obvious, either. He turns Louis around, still using that same gentle touch, tips his chin up with two fingers. “I’ll have enough money in two weeks.”

Understanding crashes over Louis like a wave. He ducks out from between Harry’s body and the table and crosses the room, puts his back against the wall. “Do you think I care about your money?” he asks scornfully, gesturing loosely towards the room. “Do you think you have the kind of money that impresses me after a lifetime of all of this?”

Harry doesn’t take the distance between them as the signal it so clearly is, crossing the room to box Louis in again, more effectively this time. Their bodies don’t touch but in order for Louis to escape again they would have to. And he’s under no illusions that Harry would let that happen without trying to stop him.

“You think I do not know you well enough to know that you don’t care about the money?” Harry asks, resting an arm against the wall, caging Louis in even more effectively than before. “That I would dare to ask for your hand in marriage without knowing you?”

Louis can’t – he doesn’t stand a chance against Harry when Harry’s using _emotion_ as a weapon. And Harry won’t stop once he gets started, will build and build and build on that emotion until Louis bends to his will, until Louis starts making concessions.

“You mistake lust for love,” Louis says, holding his head high. Won’t give an inch, won’t lose his footing. Not this time, not when the end is so near. “You remember the handful of times I allowed you to tumble me into a bed and think that must mean I have _feelings_ for you.”

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Harry asks, amusement colouring his tone. Strokes the fingers of the hand that’s not braced against the wall up Louis’ arm, the touch ghost light and pleasant. “I _know you_ , Louis.”

It’s getting harder to ignore the bare expanse of Harry’s chest, only interrupted by the dressing taped over his wound. Miles of skin on display, it’s an even more calculated move than the use of emotion.

And they say gladiators are dumb barbarians.

“You know the feeling of my mouth wrapped around your cock,” Louis says. “The feeling of your cock inside my arse, the sounds I make when you fuck me. Do you really think you’re the only person who knows those things about me?”

A muscle in Harry’s jaw clenches. “Don’t do that,” he orders. _Orders_. As though he’s the one holding the power in this room.

“You’re not,” Louis tells him unsympathetically. “You romanticize our couplings, pretend there’s something between us that I haven’t had with dozens of others, that I haven’t writhed for other cocks the way I have for yours – ”

He’s cut off by the press of Harry’s arm against his throat. Not hard enough to choke him but hard enough to stop the flow of his words, leave him open-mouthed and wide-eyed, staring up at Harry’s face.

Doesn’t realize his mis-step until Harry points it out.

“Dozens?” Harry asks, knocking Louis’ knees apart and stepping between them, finally bringing their bodies into contact. “No, not dozens. A few fumbling lays from your youth, none of which made you feel the way I did. The way I _do_.”

Louis’ breathing quickens. He doesn’t bother denying it – he remembers every word of that conversation, every nuance, every breath. Every admission he made, every one Harry made in return.

Knows Harry remembers it too.

“I could have blindsided you,” Harry says, loosening the pressure but not removing his arm. “Your father would have given me his blessing, and I could have gone down on my knee and asked you in front of the entire court, forced you to give me an answer right then and there.”

There’s no mistaking the heavy press of Harry’s cock against his as anything else. Louis is losing this particular battle of wills and has been since the moment Harry stepped into the room bleeding from the chest, the moment Harry came to him instead of seeing a physician.

It’s time to switch games.

“What you want,” Louis starts, sliding his hand down Harry’s chest, over smooth muscles, coming to a stop at his waistband, “is another chance to bed me. Get me underneath you, spear me with your cock, open me up and make me come. You just need to get me out of your _system_.”

Emphasizes the statement by curling his fingers around Harry’s cock through the material and giving it a firm squeeze.

Harry’s staring at him, pupils blown and hair falling into his face, brushing Louis’ temple. His arms slide slowly off Louis’ neck, get replaced by his hand instead, digging into the spot where Louis’ pulse is fluttering. There’s frustration on his face, warring with his obvious desire, and he doesn’t say any of the things he’s so obviously thinking.

No, instead he bends his head and kisses Louis’ mouth, sucking on Louis’ bottom lip without hesitation. Louis lets him, helpless to stop this vicious onslaught, caught in it the same way he always is. Can’t help but remember the first time they laid together. He’d like to describe it as _fumbling_ , if only for the sake of his own sanity, but the truth is that it had been heat and passion and reckless abandon, gliding limbs and smooth strokes. The truth is that it had been _amazing_.

Louis still has his fingers wrapped around Harry’s cock through his chiton. He gives it another squeeze, wraps a leg around Harry’s hip and arches up. Knows the movement debauches him further. Also knows that it puts them on a level playing field.

“Are you going to bed me, gladiator?” Louis asks, keeping his voice at a murmur. “Take what you believe to be rightfully yours? Am I the spoils of your war?”

Harry steps back. Not far, just a few steps, puts a bit of distance between them. Louis feels off-kilter, askew. Doesn’t know what to do with this sudden space. Definitely didn’t see it coming.

“Every fight has been for you,” Harry says. “Since the first time I saw you, every victory has been yours, every wound a reminder of what I’m fighting for. Of _who_ I’m fighting for. You may be rightfully mine, but you are not the spoils of any war.”

Louis stares at him. Harry stares back, unmoving. Silent. Between Louis’ legs, his cock throbs.

Then, Louis pushes himself off the wall, launching himself through the air. Harry doesn’t even have the courtesy to pretend to stumble, catching Louis by the backs of his thighs and lifting him into the air as though he weighs nothing. Then they’re kissing again, desperately this time, Louis’ hands on Harry’s face and tongues coming out to duel. It’s hot and wet and electric, and for a second everything Louis worries about melts away.

“Will you have me, then?” Louis asks, unable to stop himself. “If I’m rightfully yours?” Rolls his hips pointedly.

Harry trails a series of wet kisses down Louis’ jaw, across his throat. It takes him a minute to answer, and his voice, when it comes, is almost unbearably deep. “Would you let me?”

It’s not a question he’s asking for the first time. It’s a question he asks every time, a question he asks because he knows what Louis could do to him or in spite of him, and suddenly it’s a sentence Louis doesn’t want to hear ever again. Wants Harry to assume that he doesn’t have to ask because he doesn’t need to ask in order to know the answer. Because this is a man who can fight his way out of a room, a man with scars and a history of violence, and Louis wants _everything_ for him.

It’s the reason Louis went to the lengths he did to free Harry.

“Yes,” Louis says, because the answer has never been anything but yes. He can figure out a way out of this problem later – right now he just wants Harry. Just Harry.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers into Louis’ mouth, kissing him again. It’s distracting, so distracting Louis doesn’t even realize they’re moving until he’s dropped onto the bed.

For a minute, Harry just stands there, towering above him, eyes raking over Louis’ body as though this is the first time he’s seen it. He doesn’t seem inclined to move, drinking in his fill, and part of Louis likes that, likes that Harry seems entranced enough to remain still.

A bigger part of him wants to be devoured in the way he’s only ever been devoured by Harry, achingly empty and desperate for it. He reaches up and undoes the clasp at his shoulder, letting material pool down in his lap. It’s not enough to be considered nude, not with the material still wrapped around his waist, but Louis’ heart is still pounding in his chest, so fast he thinks it must be visible.

“I’ll never tire of that,” Harry murmurs, eyes fixed on Louis’ body as it becomes bare to him, hand going absently to his own hip to undo his own cloth, letting the material fall carelessly to the floor. His cock springs up without anything to hold it back, mouth-wateringly hard and thick. “Gorgeous.”

“Are you going to do anything about it?” Louis asks, leaning back with an arm behind his head, putting himself on display the best way he knows how.

“I am,” Harry promises. The stalk of his movements abruptly reminds Louis that Harry is a _predator_ , that he’s always figuring out the best ways to take down his opponent, consciously or not.

He doesn’t join Louis on the bed, kneeling instead next to him on the floor, putting a heavy hand on Louis’ belly, resting on bare skin. He doesn’t seem inclined to move, holding tension in his shoulders, so Louis does it for him, undoing the clasp at his waist and pushing the material away, until he’s lying completely naked on the bed.

Harry moves fast, biting at the underside of Louis’ jaw and levering himself up so he’s lying on top of him, holding himself up with his forearms. Louis spreads his thighs, gives Harry space between then, and then it’s just naked skin against naked skin. More kissing, wet tongue against wet tongue, and it’s about all Louis can take. He’s been hard for what feels like hours and he wants Harry inside of him.

“Fuck me,” Louis says, twisting his head away so he can gasp the words out against Harry’s jaw. Make his demands known.

Harry leans away to grab a pot of oil, giving Louis space in the meantime. He takes it, squirming over onto his belly before pushing up so his arse is in the air.

Almost like it’s a reflex, Harry’s hand comes down on the meatiest part of the cheek, hard and stinging. Louis means to yelp in protest, he really does, but all that comes out is a weak, broken whimper. He earns himself another slap just from the noise.

“What’re you doing?” Harry asks. A finger slips down Louis’ arse without waiting for an answer, dipping into his hole easily, slick with the oil.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” Louis repeats, pushing back on Harry’s hand, taking the entire length of his finger easily. Can only gasp as Harry curls it immediately, stretching him out easily. Adds a second one almost before Louis is ready for it, a little rough, hands calloused.

Then a third, leaving Louis stretched and full but not full enough, gone hazy from how good it feels.

The stretching goes fast, hurried. At the end of it Harry doesn’t pull his fingers out, leaves them still but inside. “Don’t stop,” Louis demands, back gone slick with sweat, muscles trembling from holding himself up.

“I’m not going to take you like this,” Harry says.

If Louis was capable of twisting around, he would be leveling Harry with an impatient look. But he’s not.

“You’re taking me like this right now,” he snaps, frustrated. “It’s not the first time you’ve taken me like this, either.”

All Harry does is repeat, “I’m not going to take you like this,” in that same calm, drawling tone that almost hides how turned on he is.

Almost.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” Louis demands again. Tacks on, “ _please_ ,” to the end of it.

“If you want this,” Harry says, leaning down to whisper the words into Louis’ ear, chest rumbling against his back, “it’s going to be face to face so I can look into your eyes.” He punctuates the sentence with a sharp jab of his fingers directly against Louis’ prostate, and it’s all Louis can do to nod helplessly, gasp out another _yes, please, want it_. It’s convincing, must be, because Harry draws his fingers out, and then Louis is moving, rolling over before Harry even gets a chance to nudge him, thighs locking themselves around Harry’s waist.

“Please,” he repeats, fingers trembling as he tries to hold onto Harry’s biceps. “Harry.”

It’s enough. Harry adjusts them just enough to slide inside, and then he’s moving, at the exact right pace to have Louis’ eyes rolling back inside his head, lost in the feeling of Harry inside of him, the power of his thrusts, the scent of him all around Louis. Can only respond sluggishly to Harry’s kisses, holding on as Harry’s thrusts get deeper and faster, and they’re both making noise, lost in it, until suddenly it’s over and they’re spilling over the edge as one.

Louis has mostly lost his grip on reality, only anchored by the feeling of Harry’s skin underneath his palms, barely registers Harry pulling out and wiping him down with the edge of the sheet. It takes a few minutes before he floats back down into himself, and even then he’s not entirely all there.

He’s so tired, and he wants to sleep.

It’s another few minutes before Harry says anything.

“Two more weeks, Louis,” Harry says, kissing Louis’ bare hip. “In two weeks I’ll have the money I need to ask for your hand, and if you want to stop that from happening you only need to say the words.”

Louis licks his bottom lip, feels sluggishly slow as he reaches out to brush his thumb across Harry’s mouth. “Why are you telling me this.”

It’s not like Harry to cede his advantages, give up the higher ground.

Harry presses another kiss to Louis’ hip. “Because when I ask you I want you to know that you had every opportunity to put a stop to it,” he says simply. “And you can spend the next two weeks pulling every trick you can think of, but the only thing that’s going to stop me from asking is if you _say the damn words_.”

He pushes himself to his feet, goes about setting his clothing to rights. “I love you,” he says, halfway to the door, almost as an afterthought. “You gave me my freedom, Louis, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that, but I would give it back in a heartbeat if it meant that I got to spend the rest of my life with you. Nothing is going to change that for me, so you can say the words or not, you can say _yes_ or not, but I’ll always be in love with you, and I will always be here to keep you safe.”

With that, Harry pulls the door open and leaves the room, leaving Louis staring at the empty space where he had been standing.

Two weeks. Louis has two weeks left to figure this out.

 

Water slides down Louis’ bare arms, washing away dirt and soap. Louis tilts his head back against the rim of the tub, letting his eyes drift closed as his body servant washes him. It’s quiet in the room, peaceful with the scent of jasmine perfuming the air.

It’s peaceful right up until the door bangs open, thudding against the wall. It’s a thick, heavy door, and it makes a lot of noise.

Louis doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t need to. There’s only one person arrogant enough to barge into Louis’ chambers unannounced. 

“Get out,” Harry says. His voice is rough, frayed around the edges, and he’s clearly not talking to Louis.

Caleb’s hands don’t still on Louis’ skin, but that’s only because they had already stilled when Harry had slammed the door open. Louis breathes in softly and then opens his eyes. At his side, Caleb’s eyes are wide and not quite panicked, but unsure. He looks to Louis for instruction.

Louis rolls his eyes, bringing a hand out of the water to flick his fingers towards the door. “Go. If he wants to interrupt me so badly, he can finish my bath. Get out.”

It’s a little harsher than necessary, but considering that Louis is naked and sitting in a tub full of steaming water, he thinks it’s acceptable. Caleb bows his head once and goes, shutting the door behind him firmly.

Good. Louis is under no impression that this particular incident won’t have made its way across the palace in mere hours, but at least the door is closed, giving them some degree of privacy.

Harry’s breathing is loud and uneven. His knuckles are split, skin tinged pink like he made a hurried attempt at washing someone else’s blood off of them before coming here.

He probably did. There was a tournament today, and Louis can’t say for sure whether Harry fought it in as he didn’t attend, but if he had to hedge his bets he would go with a resounding yes. The chances of that leftover blood belonging to Harry are slim to none. He’s an excellent fighter when Louis is there to watch, but when he’s not Harry is an entirely different beast, savage and relentless as though he’s trying to punish his opponent for Louis’ absence.

For all Louis knows, he might be. It’s not something they’ve ever talked about.

“Well?” Louis asks impatiently, gesturing down the length of his body. “You scared away my hand servant, you get to finish my bath.”

Harry swallows, throat working. He’s silent as he crosses the room to the tub, kneeling next to it instead of sitting on the stool. He doesn’t move to pick up the washcloth, gaze hot and heavy on Louis’ face. Louis is naked, as one tends to be while bathing, and he’s sure that’s what Harry is thinking about.

“If you were to try to fuck me like this, water would go everywhere and the servants would be stuck cleaning up your mess,” Louis says mildly. He knows why Harry is here, and it doesn’t hurt to make an attempt to distract him before he brings it up.

“You weren’t at the tournament,” Harry says. His hand wraps around Louis’ upper arm, holding him still as though there’s any risk of Louis attempting to escape right now.

Louis isn’t planning on it. He has some shred of dignity left, after all, and the last thing he needs is to be running down hallways wet and naked being chased by a gladiator. 

“I didn’t need to be there to know that you beat some guy bloody with your bare hands,” Louis says, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the rim of the tub again. “I have no interest in watching you sully yourself with someone else’s blood for the third time this week.”

Harry’s hand leaves his arm, only for his fingers to curl around Louis’ neck instead, holding him in place. Louis’ pulse spikes, flutters so obviously Harry must be able to feel it. “Is this some kind of scheme?” Harry demands, grip tight. “I won’t stray from my plans just because you don’t show up to a fight.”

“Fine,” Louis says, struggling to remain still. Harry likes it when he fights, when he claws and bites and scratches. That’s his instinct right now, to make it as difficult for Harry as possible. “I don’t care what you do.”

Harry doesn’t let go, but he doesn’t use his grip to haul Louis out of the water, either, so for a few seconds they just sit there in silence, hanging off the edge of something delicate.

“When we wed you will be mine to do with as I please,” Harry says abruptly. It’s a startling statement, enough so that Louis opens his eyes. 

For a second, he can’t breathe. Harry is staring him down, eyes a touch wild, as though he’s a feral animal who has cornered his prey.

He’s not. Harry is just a man, Louis reminds himself. A man who happens to be one of the most renowned gladiators in the entire kingdom, but just a man. Louis may not be able to win a fight against him when it comes to physical strength, but there’s plenty of other ways to win, and Louis has been doing that. There’s history and a whole bunch of other nonsense between them, and Louis knows how to use it to his advantage.

“Even if we were to ever marry, there’s nothing in this entire _world_ that would make me yours to do what you want with,” Louis says, acerbic and biting. Suddenly, his nakedness feel less like an advantage than it does a disadvantage, and he wants to climb out of the bath and wrap a robe around himself, cover up.

Harry’s grip gets looser, turns into more of a caress. “You always deny it,” he says, low. Candlelight flickers across his face, sending shadows dancing. “That you’re mine as much as I’m yours.”

He sounds more amused than anything. Louis’ pulse is still going strong in his throat, and as much as he hates to admit it, it doesn’t help that Harry’s casual claim of him is so confident, unthinking. As though it’s not even something he has to consider - it’s just something he knows.

“A person can’t own another person,” Louis hisses, fighting to remain still. The water is cooling by the second, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can stay in it. “That’s why you have your freedom right now.”

Getting out would mean exposing all of himself to Harry’s gaze, and right now that’s another thing that doesn’t feel like an advantage.

“No, of course not,” Harry agrees. “It’s about belonging, not owning.”

The way he says it is so simple, like the complexities of what he’s saying mean nothing to him. And Louis just - he’s so tired of all the fighting. His entire life has been spent putting up appearances, making himself seem strong and unyielding, and he’s _tired_. He never meant to let Harry see through it all.

“There’s only one thing you could say to me in order to get me to stop,” Harry murmurs, even lower. “You know what it is.”

Half of Louis wants to say it. The other half wants to let this happen, see what kind of life they could build together given the chance.

Harry kisses him before Louis can say anything at all. It’s a soft, gentle kiss, at odds with the hand he still has on Louis’ throat, and Louis would be lying if he said he didn’t open up for it.

Almost as quickly as it started, the kiss is over. Louis blinks open heavy eyes, throat bare and cold as Harry’s hand leaves it. “I love you,” Harry says, quiet and entirely too serious. “You can refuse to attend the rest of my fights and I’ll still love you. You can scream and shout and pretend like you don’t feel the same, but there’s nothing in this world that’s going to make me stop loving you.”

With that, he pushes himself to his feet and exits the room, leaving Louis blinking at his retreating back.

 

It takes a few minutes for Louis to get his heartbeat back under control. By that time, the water has gone cool around him, verging on cold. He picks himself up out of the bath carefully, concentrating on breathing steadily as he dries himself off, not bothering to call his body servant back in.

It’s less than two weeks, now. Refusing to attend Harry’s fights was just the first step. Louis is going to continue not showing up to them, but it’s going to take more than that. Harry has always been too persistent for his own good. There’s no way he’s going to give up just because Louis doesn’t go to watch him make other people bleed with his bare hands.

No, it’s going to take a lot more than that.

 

Louis was born into a position of power. He’s a prince, the firstborn son to the King, and he’s never known the type of hardship a lot of other people have. It’s something he’s well aware of, particularly when he has to watch men fight each other for no reason other than to provide entertainment for the rich.

Eating a meal is an ordeal when one is a member of a highborn family. It’s never just a meal - it’s an entire affair, sitting at a table with other highborn people, making small talk and pretending as though they care about each other’s lives.

Louis has never been more grateful for the ordeal it is than he is now. Lady Catherine sits to his right, his father to his left, and he busies himself with his food and conversation, ignoring Harry sitting across the table from him altogether.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. By anyone, really. As much as Louis would like to tell himself that just because his father knows about his and Harry’s past, it doesn’t mean the rest of the court does, that’s patently untrue. They’ve never been as subtle as they should have been.

It especially doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry. He’s been sitting at this table for a long time now, never had his invitation rescinded. Louis doesn’t need to look up to feel the heat of Harry’s gaze fixed on his face. He knows it’s there, and that same part of his belly that always squirms when Harry’s looking at him is doing it again now.

Ignoring Harry is always an exercise in self restraint. Louis keeps eating his food, keeps making small talk, and doesn’t look in Harry’s direction once.

Dinner isn’t over fast enough. Louis takes the first possible excuse to make his exit, slipping silently through the maze of hallways he knows like the back of his hands. He’s trying to make it back to his rooms unseen, give him some plausible deniability for what time he left in case his father decides to interrogate him about it.

He doesn’t make it. Halfway there, he gets pushed face first up against a wall. He hadn’t even heard Harry approaching.

“Ignoring me isn’t going to change anything,” Harry hisses into the back of Louis’ neck, and Louis trembles despite himself.

“It’s almost as though my entire life doesn’t revolve around you,” Louis shoots back. It comes out a little more shaky than he would like it to.

Harry kicks Louis’ feet apart, making space between his legs and stepping right up into it. They’re fully pressed together now, heat of Harry’s body bleeding into Louis’ back. The places where their bare skin touches feels hot, almost tingling, and Louis is uncomfortably aware that if Harry pressed he would probably let him take him right here where anyone could walk by and see.

Louis is entirely too used to the ways his body betrays him, at least when it comes to Harry.

“Do you think it’s a good idea, playing with me like this?” Harry asks. He’s got Louis’ arms pinned between his own body and the wall. Louis can’t move, not with Harry bigger and stronger than him. Harry’s a fighter, been a fighter practically his entire life, and the chances of Louis escaping from this are slim.

“This is my _life_ , not a game,” Louis says. He curls his fingers into his palms and doesn’t try to shove back, no matter how much he wants to. 

He wants to be angry. He wants to be furious, actually, but all he feels is sad. Either this works and Harry leaves, leaving him alone, or it doesn’t and Harry stays, subjecting himself to the exact type of violence Louis has been trying to free him from. Neither option leaves him with a happy ending.

“It is,” Harry agrees, hushed now. “But it’s mine too.” 

It’s such a simple statement. Louis’ breath rattles in his chest, and he can’t think straight. It feels like all he’s ever wanted is standing right in front of him - or behind him, at the case may be - and trying to refuse it is breaking his heart.

“All I want is for you to be happy,” Louis says, letting his eyes slip closed, head tipping forward until it makes contact with the cool wall. He’s afraid that if he lets them open he might start crying, and if he starts he’s not going to be able to stop.

“All I want is to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you,” Harry tells him, mouth pressed against Louis’ bare shoulder. “Keep you safe and healthy, ensure no harm ever befalls you. Fuck you every night in our bed or as often as you want it, kiss you awake every morning. Make you happy, support you, give you whatever you need. Stand by your side and at your back and love you until the day I die, and then some more in the afterlife.”

Louis squeezes his eyes closed harder against the tears that want to escape, and presses back into Harry’s hold. “That’s all, is it.”

As far as jokes go, it’s a pretty weak one.

“It’s a start,” Harry says, taking advantage of the inch Louis has ceded to him and wrapping his arms around Louis’ waist, pulling him back tight against Harry’s chest. It’s a warm, tight hug, firm pressure against Louis’ back, and he doesn’t know if anything has ever felt more right.

Louis’ breath is still caught in his throat. They’re halfway to Louis’ quarters, in a section of hall that’s always been a bit more secluded than the rest, and if he were to take Harry back to his rooms there’s a slight chance no one would ever know.

“Why do you always have to do this?” Louis asks, tipping his head back against Harry’s shoulder, giving himself up more fully to the press of Harry’s mouth against his bare skin.

“Love you?” Harry asks, inching his hand into the gap between Louis’ chiton and the skin of his belly. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t.”

It would make things a lot easier, that’s for sure.

There’s nothing Louis can say that he hasn’t said a thousand times already. He turns around in Harry’s arms, struggling a bit with the strength of the grip Harry still has on him, and drags Harry’s head down, forcing their mouths to meet.

Harry’s reaction is instantaneous, surging forward to press Louis back up against the wall, biting at his bottom lip, pulling his mouth open. His tongue sweeps into Louis’ mouth like it’s done a thousand times before, and for all that Louis is the one who initiated this kiss Harry is the one who takes it over, guiding it, directing it. He slips his hands into Louis’ hair, holding him still as they kiss.

It’s achingly familiar, this kiss. Louis remembers the first time they kissed, so long ago. He’d been much less resistant to Harry than he’s trying to be now, and Harry had worn him down exactly the same as he always does. It had been illicit, thrilling, and Louis had let Harry bed him that very same night. And twice more before morning had come.

“I know the feeling,” Louis murmurs into the kiss, barely breaking it. Harry has always been way too adept at stripping away all of Louis’ barriers, until there’s nothing left but him. The real him.

Harry breaks the kiss, pulling away enough to look Louis in the eyes. His gaze is steady, unrelenting, and, if possible, Louis feels like he’s been stripped even barer. 

He doesn’t say anything. The look on his face is - Louis can’t even begin to describe the look on Harry’s face. Something full of heartbreak and wonder in equal measure. Something that says all Louis would have to do to get Harry to walk away is tell him to leave.

Right now, that’s the last thing he wants. Right now, he feels achingly empty, and as much as he wants Harry to be free of this life he wants Harry inside of him even more.

He kisses Harry again, sweeter than the first time but no less fiery, arching up into Harry’s body the best that he can. “Take me to bed, gladiator,” he whispers, linking his fingers behind Harry’s neck.

Harry keeps kissing him, seemingly content to press Louis up against this wall and make bruises on his skin from all the places he keeps gripping him a touch too hard. “Please,” Louis breathes into the kiss, pushing himself up onto his toes so their bodies press together even better.

“No,” Harry says.

Louis blinks. “No?” he repeats.

Harry curls a hand around the back of Louis’ neck, kissing him again, short and soft. “No,” he says, the hint of a smile pressing against Louis’ face. “I’m not going to have sex with you again until you agree to marry me.”

“What?” Louis says, blank.

“If you’re so insistent that we shouldn’t be together, we might as well start now,” Harry says. There’s the beginnings of a smug smirk threatening to overtake his face.

For a second, Louis stares at him. “You’re not the only one who’s capable of creating plans that will hurt the people you love,” Harry says, and he’s still holding Louis with one hand on his back and the other on his neck.

He. Louis just.

He plants his hands on Harry’s chest and shoves him back. “If you think that not being able to have sex with you is going to hurt me, you have no idea who I am,” he says, rattled despite himself, and makes his escape, all too aware that Harry is watching him flee.

 

So Harry thinks he’s going to win something by refusing Louis sex. That isn’t too surprising, now that Louis has had time to think about it. Harry is a gladiator, he always expects to win something when he defeats his opponent, even if it’s only a night of wine and sex.

Not that Louis is considering himself Harry’s opponent. Harry always defeats his opponents, and Louis has no intention of letting that happen.

This isn’t a game. This is Harry’s life, Louis’ life, and Louis can’t let it get to the point where Harry gets down on one knee in front of the entire court and asks for Louis’ hand in marriage. Louis isn’t going to say no for everyone to see, not if he can possibly stop it. He won’t put Harry through that if he can help it.

He just wishes that the nagging, insistent ache inside of him since Harry refused to have sex with him would go away. He doesn’t think that’s too much to ask.

 

Louis is fast running out of ideas. It’s been five days. Five days in which Harry has treated everything Louis has attempted to do as some sort of amusing little game, a distraction from his plan. And it’s not. This is serious, both of their lives at stake. It might not be the type of life or death situation Harry is used to facing, but it’s important. It’s very important.

Harry has always been the one person who’s capable of getting underneath Louis’ skin like no other. He’d been knocking Louis off balance since the day they met, and Louis has always felt ill-equipped to handle him.

This time, though, Louis is going to do something that’s going to let him _win_ for once. After he does this, Harry will leave. He’ll finally be safe, finally be able to wake up every morning with the knowledge that he won’t have to step into the ring ever again, won’t have to fight another human being in order to survive. The thought is what convinces Louis to do it, despite the misgivings he has about it. It’ll be worth it. Everything will be better after it’s done.

Everything will be fine.

 

For the first time in a long time, Louis puts an extraordinary amount of effort into his appearance, taking a long bath and carefully shaving his face clean of every strand of hair. There’s a few outfits that he doesn’t wear that often, mostly because they attract the type of attention he doesn’t want or need.

He chooses one of them now, a Tyrian purple chiton that is the epitome of the upper class. It’s an silky fabric, one of the few pieces in the kingdom that has the colour of dried blood, the most sought after trend. It’s the most expensive piece of clothing Louis owns, and he rarely wears it. He feels the weight of people’s eyes on him when he does, some appreciative, some not, and it reminds him of everything that comes with being the King’s son. The good, the bad, everything in between.

The chiton is an inch or two shorter than the ones he normally wears, baring a soft expanse of his thighs he normally keeps hidden. It’s not scandalous, not anywhere close, but it still takes Louis a few minutes to gather the courage to step out of his room.

It takes him longer than usual to get ready, so he’s late for dinner. It would be false to say that everyone looks at him when he walks into the room, but that’s still the way it feels.

Really, the only person who is looking at him is Harry, and that was to be expected. Harry’s eyes tend to find him no matter where Louis is in a room. It’s unnerving and comforting at the same time.

Harry’s grip on his fork goes so tight Louis can almost see his knuckles whitening from across the room. Louis makes his way to the table silently, forgoing his usual place at his father’s side for a chair on the other side, next to one of the soldiers from the guard. It’s considered an honour to dine at the King’s table, and this is a soldier who has had that honour quite a few times before.

His name is Felix, and Louis has been aware of his interest for some time now. Before, it was always easy enough to brush off, ignore. Felix has never made a big thing of it, probably at least in part due to the weight of Harry’s stare every time the two of them have exchanged so much as a word, but it’s there. Louis knows it’s there.

He’s finally ready to use it, is all.

Felix’s gaze is wary as Louis sits down next to him. Wary and appreciative. Louis can use that. Louis is going to use that. Definitely.

“Hello, Felix,” he says, and ignores the fury he can feel in Harry’s stare.

 

It takes longer than expected to gain Felix’s full interest. There may be no real evidence that Harry and Louis have been sleeping together, but it’s a poorly disguised secret at best. Felix is understandably wary that the most successful gladiator in the kingdom is currently watching the person he sleeps with flirt with someone else. So it takes some time, but Louis gets them there.

He always knew Felix was interested.

“Why don’t I slip out now,” Louis murmurs, hand on Felix’s chest, “and you follow me in a few minutes?”

Felix nods. Louis’ smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes, but he slips out of his seat nonetheless and out into the hallway. He doesn’t go too far away, down a few corridors where Felix will still be able to find him, wiping his damp palms on his chiton as he waits.

And waits. He waits for much longer than it should take, frown deepening on his face with every minute that ticks by, wondering what could have gone wrong.

Eventually, footsteps sound around the corner. They’re heavy, almost intentionally so, and Louis relaxes, arranging himself as artfully as possible against a wall. Everything is going according to plan, then. That’s good.

It’s not Felix who rounds the corner.

“Did you really think,” Harry starts, voice calm despite the clench of his fists at his sides, “that I would just _let you_ run off with a pretty little soldier boy while I was sitting right there?”

Louis takes a step forward and looks down the hall. There’s no bodies there, no signs of blood, and that’s a good thing.

Still. “What did you do to Felix?”

Harry takes a big step forward, putting himself into Louis’ space. He doesn’t make a move to touch him, not yet. “I just reinforced the knowledge that having sex with you would be a bad idea.”

Harry’s big and broad, muscled and capable. He’s not even that large, just seems that way with all the looming he does, and all that’s ever really mattered is that he’s bigger than Louis. He knows how to fight, has killed plenty of men with his bare hands, and that’s exactly why Louis knows he’s done something to Felix.

Something more than just talked to him.

“Here’s what I think,” Louis says, drawing himself up to his full height. “I think that it’s none of your business who I sleep with. I think that you need to start keeping your hands to yourself or you’re going to pick a fight with the wrong person, someone who can actually fight back and maybe even win. I think that you have no right to pry into my life like this, and that you need to leave this city before I _make you_.”

As far as speeches go, it’s not bad.

All it succeeds in doing is getting Harry to move a step closer, even further into Louis’ space, and toy with the hem of Louis’ chiton. “Really?” he asks, voice low. “So you showing up to dinner wearing this, that means nothing?”

There’s a flush working its way across Louis’ face, one he can’t stop, no matter how hard he tries. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind when he had chosen this outfit earlier. It’s something he doesn’t let himself think about.

“No,” Louis says. Keeps his answers short and simple. Maybe Harry won’t be able to see the lies that way.

“Don’t lie to me,” Harry says sharply, still gripping the fabric in one hand and bringing the other up to curl around the back of Louis’ neck. “You always think I can’t see right through you but I _can_.”

Louis opens his mouth to feed Harry another lie, something about not even knowing when he got this particular chiton, that it’s just a piece of clothing that doesn’t mean anything.

Harry cuts him off with a kiss. He’s not gentle about it, smashing their faces together in a way that would be painful if he didn’t immediately follow it up with shocking intensity. It’s - good. It’s always good. It hurts, how good it is.

It was a gift from his father, the chiton. Louis had been wearing it the first night he had sex with Harry, after months of being pursued, months of being flirted with in increasingly obvious ways. It had been a night much like this one - Louis had shown up to dinner in this outfit, and Harry had still been enslaved but that hadn’t mattered. It happened regardless of any of that, and the second Louis had walked into that room Harry had barely even blinked, much less looked away. His gaze had been open and hungry, and the weight of his desire had left Louis flushed all night. If he was attracted to Louis on a normal day, that day had been like something out of an epic love story.

Louis hasn’t let himself think about that day in a very long time.

The kiss is tame, compared to some of the others Harry has given him. Not weak, not by any means, but tame. Slick tongue darting out quickly, barely making any contact before retreating back into his own mouth. Louis makes a hungry noise before he can stop himself, chasing Harry’s tongue.

His back hits the wall. It’s abrupt and a little jarring, but all it makes Louis do is moan a little louder, a little deeper, arching up into Harry’s hands. Harry’s not going to let him go, Louis knows, not now that he has him in his grasp, and Louis is strangely okay with that, sucks Harry’s tongue into his mouth, endorphins running through his body. Everything is good, Harry big and solid against him, kissing him exactly the way Louis likes to be kissed, touching him exactly the way Louis needs to be touched - 

Harry lets him go.

“You walk in, wearing this and start flirting with someone else and expect me to let that go?” Harry asks. His voice has gone a little dark, a little dangerous.

Louis isn’t afraid of him. Maybe that’s a bad thing. “I expect you to let me make my own decisions instead of trying to control me,” he hisses, shoving at Harry’s shoulders. Harry rocks backwards a step, and Louis knows that it’s only because he’s _allowing_ it to happen.

Louis is mad. Fuck, he’s so fucking mad. Harry doesn’t get to just decide this for both of them. Louis is in charge of his own life. That’s the way it’s always been and that’s the way it’s going to _stay_.

“If those decisions involve you sleeping with people you’re not attracted to in order to hurt me, I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing,” Harry says. “I didn’t even touch the guy, anyway.”

He says it with the slightest hint of sullenness in his voice, and that’s the thing that makes Louis believe him. Harry is exactly the type of person who laments not being able to hurt other people for perceived slights. It’s his way of life, after all. Violence is in his nature. It’s what he does.

“You don’t - ” Louis starts, voice echoing through the hallway from how loud he’s being.

“Get to make decisions for you, yeah, I know,” Harry cuts him off. Frustration and arousal are warring on his face, plain and obvious, and Louis wishes that he didn’t know the look of both of them so intimately. “This isn’t me making decisions for you. This is me telling you that the thought of you having sex with other people is breaking my heart.”

Louis sucks in a breath, sagging back against the wall. “Don’t,” he says, closing his eyes. This is already hard enough as it is. Harry being so open, so vulnerable, it isn’t helping.

“I’m not going to apologize,” Harry says, coming back in, the heat of his body back against Louis’. Louis can’t help but arch up into him again, fitting them together perfectly. “I’m never going to apologize for loving you. You should know that by now.”

Eyes still closed, Louis reaches up and tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair, pulling his head down. “Just - just kiss me,” he says, voice breaking, and doesn’t let his eyes open to see Harry’s reaction.

Harry does. The kiss is gentle this time, for once, sweet and exploring, and Louis _wants_. He wants so much. He wants everything Harry would give him, and he knows that Harry would give him everything.

It’s still a scary thought. Louis pushes it out of his head, kissing Harry back. It doesn’t take long for him to start feeling like he’s been drugged, barely takes any hinting to let Harry nudge his way between Louis’ thighs. He’s such a warm, familiar pressure. It feels natural to have there, exactly where he should be, and Louis whines from deep in his throat, arching up into Harry’s hands. One more time. Just one more time. One more time is all they need in order to be able to shake each other off for good, move on with their lives. One more night together, that’s all it will take.

Harry lets him go again. This time, he pulls all the way back, putting three feet of space between them so there’s no risk of them touching. Not even a little. Louis doesn’t mourn it, the touching. Not at all.

“I want you,” Harry says, raw and honest. “I’m never going to stop wanting you, and I really don’t think there’s anything you could do to make me. But I’m still not going to have sex with you until you give me your answer, and if that answer is no _I’m still not going to go away_. Whether we’re together or not, I’m going to protect you. I have to protect you.”

With that, he spins on his heel and walks away. The only reason Louis knows that he’s holding tension in his shoulders is because he’s seen it before, so many times when Louis tried to push him away.

This is - not ideal. Not the end of the world, no matter what it feels like, but not ideal. Louis is pretty sure no one would argue with him about that.

 

Creating a plan to run Harry out of the city is harder than Louis originally thought it would be. Harry has the particular skill of being the most stubborn person Louis has ever met, and if Louis hasn’t scared him off by now none of his normal tactics are going to work.

Ignoring Harry isn’t going to work. Refusing to attend his fights isn’t going to work. Louis needs to do something bigger, something that will send an unmistakable message.

He goes to his father.

“Father,” he says, addressing him in the King’s chambers, the only place his father is ever likely to be alone, “I want you to put a stop to Harry’s advances.”

His father doesn’t even do him the dignity of looking up from the scroll he’s writing. “If you want him to stop, open your mouth and tell him to stop.”

“I _have_ told him to stop,” Louis says, outraged, slapping his hand down atop his father’s scroll, smearing ink.

That’s the thing that makes his father look up, unimpressed. “Yes, I’m well aware of that,” he says dryly. “It might help if you didn’t let him kiss you in the same breath, though. Just a tip.”

Louis wills himself not to flush. “That’s not the point.”

His father sighs, leaning back in his chair. “The first time the two of you spent the night together, a dozen people came running to tell me about it,” he says conversationally. “Half of them were convinced that he was forcing you to do something you didn’t want to, but I knew better than that. Not my son, I thought. My son would rather die than be forced into doing something he didn’t want to.”

That flush is burning its way through Louis’ cheeks. He hadn’t known that. Thought he had done a pretty decent job hiding it for a while, from his father if not from anyone else. He should have known that there would be people running to spill his secrets to his father. The gossip in this kingdom is outlandish.

“Being the amazing father that I am, I thought to myself, I should make sure that my son is okay. In the morning, do you know what I saw?”

All the memories Louis have of that day are directly related to Harry. It’s not a surprise, really - the night before had been a long, full of heat, and Harry had still been in Louis’ bed in the morning, arm resting heavy and possessive across his chest. Louis had gathered up his resolve and told Harry to leave, but Harry had been leaning over him at the time, eyes dark and intent, and Louis hadn’t meant it the way he intended to. Harry hadn’t left, and that last time before he slipped out into the hallway had almost been more achy than good.

“You have a lot of talents, Louis, but subtlety isn’t one of them,” his father continues. “That morning you were practically covered in the marks he left on you, and you couldn’t pay attention to anything someone said to you all day. He always watched you, but it was worse that day, like he couldn’t bear to let you out of his sight.”

Louis’ mouth is dry. He swallows, hoping to force his saliva into flowing. “So I had sex. That could have been with anyone.”

They both know it’s a lie.

“You were happy,” his father says, meeting Louis’ eyes. “It might have even been the happiest I’ve ever seen you. There’s no way he forced you into doing anything you didn’t want to do, not that night or ever.”

Louis can only stare, unblinking, as his father rises from his chair and walks around the table, heading towards the door, clapping Louis on the shoulder as he passes. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted for you is happiness, and I’m not going to stand in the way of that. If you really want to tell him no, you’re going to have to be the one to do it.”

With that, he leaves the room, letting the door close behind him firmly.

 

It takes Louis nearly an hour to regain his bearings enough to make his way back to his own rooms. For what feels like the thousandth time this week he feels rattled, as though his heart is attempting to escape his chest. Normally Harry is the only person who gives Louis this feeling, so it being an effect of speaking with his father hits twice as hard.

His father thinks that Harry makes him happy. His father thinks that Harry makes him happy and Louis can’t even deny it properly, can’t make either of them believe him when he says the opposite.

None of that changes anything. Louis can’t decide whether he should be relieved about that or not.

 

Louis attends the tournament the next day. Harry isn’t fighting in it, but he makes a point of showing up to every one, cataloging his opponents’ strengths and weaknesses, the way they move and attack. If he was born into a different set of circumstances, he would make for a fine soldier.

That wouldn’t change anything either. Louis watches the other gladiators fight, but he’s distracted, watching Harry watch the other men. He doesn’t have a plan, doesn’t have a next move, and the thought scares Louis a little. Not having a plan isn’t an option. Not having a plan is going to lead to him doing something incredibly stupid.

 

Five hours later, Louis is doing something incredibly stupid. Harry hasn’t sought him out all day, and that’s unsettling. It isn’t like him to give Louis space. He hasn’t given Louis space since the first day they met.

Louis would like to say that being ignored by Harry doesn’t make him act irrationally. It would be a lie if he said it, though, the type of lie that can’t be made to seem believable. Not right now, anyway, not with what Louis is doing.

His heart beats quickly in his chest. It doesn’t make sense for him to be doing this right now. It’s the exact opposite of what he should be doing if he really wants Harry to leave the palace, find a place to call his own, a life that doesn’t involve blood and fighting for his life.

Louis is still doing it.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long before there’s noise at the door. It must be nearing midnight. The castle has gone more or less quiet, and Louis slipped in here about twenty minutes ago, expecting to find Harry asleep in his bed.

Needless to say, he hadn’t found that. Instead, he’d found an empty room. He doesn’t know what he would have done if Harry had been here the way Louis was expecting him to – they probably would have fought, Louis would have shouted and there would have been kissing.

This is so much worse. Louis could have handled that. A bit of arguing, some kissing. None of that is truly detrimental to the plan of getting Harry out of here.

This, though. This is detrimental to that plan.

The door opens and Harry steps in, closing it behind himself quickly, before Louis can even start panicking that someone might catch a glimpse of him. Harry looks up, looks across the room, looks right at Louis, and exhales heavily.

“You know, if you really want me to stop pursuing you, you might want to consider not showing up in my bedroom naked,” Harry points out.

Louis knows. He still hadn’t been able to stop himself. “Don’t make me regret this,” he says unsteadily, lying back against a few pillows he had fluffed up earlier.

Harry wanders closer, feet silent against the floor. “You already do,” he responds, sitting on a corner of the bed and reaching out to grip Louis’ ankle. There’s something a little sad in his voice, a little defeated, and for the first time Louis thinks that his attempts to get Harry to leave might actually be working.

He has to push the ache that thought causes out of his chest.

“My father’s known about us all along,” Louis says. It’s the reason he’s come here, after all, and try as he might he’s never been all that successful at hiding things from Harry.

The corners of Harry’s mouth quirks up, just the tiniest bit. “Did you really think that he hadn’t?” he asks, amused, and he might not mean for it to prickle underneath Louis’ skin but it does. 

“I should have turned you away the first time you made your intentions clear,” Louis says, lip curling. 

“Is that why you came here, to lie naked in my bed and tell me that you regret all of your life choices?” Harry asks. His hand skates up the inside of Louis’ calf, up to his knee as though he’s trying to drive home the point that Louis is naked right now.

“I came here,” Louis says, grabbing Harry’s hand from his leg and articulating every word clearly, so there can be no misunderstandings, “because your obsession with making sure everyone in this country knows that I belong to you has left me with no other options when I want to have sex. It’s you or no one.”

That was a slip. Louis hadn’t thought it all the way through, and judging from the interested gleam in Harry’s eyes he hasn’t missed it.

Before Louis can think of something, anything to do about it – take it back, maybe – Harry’s hauling him up, fist tangled in Louis’ hair, bending him backwards as he leans in to smash their mouths together. It feels like less of a kiss than it does a punishment and Louis doesn’t care. It fills that hollow place inside of him just the same as a gentle kiss would.

“There’s nothing in this world like hearing you say that you’re mine,” Harry says, a scant few seconds into the kiss. His words break their mouths apart, and Louis can’t stop himself from trying to lean back in for more.

Harry doesn’t give it to him. His thumb brushes along the curve of Louis’ neck, up his jaw to press against the soft underside. “I’m still not going to fuck you,” he adds.

The kiss hadn’t done anything except make the ache between Louis’ legs that much stronger. He fumbles for Harry’s hand, drawing it down between them. “Are you sure?” he asks, trying to lean back and coax Harry into the bed properly.

“Mm,” Harry answers, curling his fingers around Louis’ cock and pressing his teeth against Louis’ jaw, hard enough to leave a mark. “I’ve no doubt that you’ll do your best to convince me, but the only thing I want more than to be inside you is to know that I have you for as long as we live.”

He says it while stroking Louis’ cock with soft, lingering touches. Louis believes him, but he also believes that if Harry had that kind of willpower they wouldn’t be touching right now at all. And they are. So. It leaves them with a dilemma.

Louis solves it by pushing up with all his strength, getting on top of Harry, straddling his lap. He’s all too aware that the only reason he succeeds in doing it is because Harry _lets him_.

“I want you,” Louis says, rolling his hips, pressing down against Harry’s cock. He can feel the bulge of it underneath him, exactly what he needs right now. “Don’t you want me?”

“I want you all the time,” Harry answers, gripping Louis’ hips with both hands but not stopping him, just slowing him. “I want you when I’m dreaming.”

Maybe he means to add more to that statement, maybe he doesn’t. Probably just gets distracted by Louis’ arse.

Good. That’s Louis’ intention, after all. Distract him into doing something he doesn’t mean to.

“What do you dream about, when you dream about me?” Louis asks breathlessly, clutching Harry’s shoulders and not faltering in his rhythm. This is going to work. They’re going to have sex and then Louis will be able to clear his head and come up with a proper plan.

“What do I dream about,” Harry repeats thoughtfully, cupping the back of Louis’ head with one hand, leaving the other on his hip, bringing their faces close enough their breath starts mingling. He kisses Louis’ neck, open mouthed and wet, and everything about this feels so right, being naked in Harry’s lap in his room, no one around to distract them.

“I dream about moments like this,” Harry says, hushed, whispering the words into Louis’ skin. “Just you and me in a room together, skin on skin.”

That sounds good. That sounds so good. Louis squirms a little, trying to entice Harry into putting him back onto his back, into slotting them together like that, deep and perfect.

“I dream about us being able to be together like that any time we want because we’re married,” Harry finishes.

Louis closes his eyes. “Harry.”

“Louis William Tomlinson,” Harry says, framing Louis’ face in his hands and tilting it up, “I couldn’t be any more in love with you. I’m not ashamed of that, and I’m definitely not going to hide it.”

He doesn’t try to kiss Louis after he says it, and that’s the only thing that gives Louis the strength to stand up, wrap a sheet around his body, and slam the door behind himself as he leaves the room.

 

There’s a little less than a week left before Harry puts his plan into action. Louis lies awake in his own bed that night, thinking about it. Harry’s been chasing him since the day they met, and that chapter of their lives is going to come to an end soon, one way or another.

Louis has been allowing it to happen all this time, the chasing. He’s never said no and meant it, not really, and he knows that’s been obvious. Harry might be persistent, stubborn to a fault, but he knows when to back down from something, and he’s never backed down from Louis. The day Louis had finally managed to secure his freedom, he’d been waiting in Louis’ room, eyes dark and intent, and he hadn’t even given Louis a chance to get the words out before he’d been on him. It’s just one in a long line of conversations that hadn’t gone the way Louis intended them to, and he knows why Harry’s still here, after all this time.

Louis has to take himself out of the equation.

 

Telling his father his plan would be a monumentally stupid idea. If Harry asked, Louis has no doubt that his father would tell him where he went with barely any coaxing needed. For this to work, Harry has to be unable to find him in time. All Louis has to do is wait out Harry’s time frame and Harry won’t be able to get over the hurt. He’ll leave, finally find himself a new life, one that doesn’t involve Louis or royalty or gladiators, and he’ll finally be _safe_.

That’s all Louis wants for him.

That being said, not telling anyone where he’s going would also be a monumentally stupid idea. If his father thinks he’s disappeared for real, he’ll send out a search party and focus on nothing else until Louis is found. That’s not even accounting for what Harry would do if he thought Louis was well and truly missing – he’d probably set entire villages on fire in an effort to find him.

No, what Louis needs is the help of someone he trusts, someone who won’t bend under the pressure his father and Harry will undoubtedly put on him. And there’s only one person for that job.

 

“Are you out of your _mind_?” Liam demands, arms crossed over his chest and staring at Louis with a disappointed face. “Running away from your problems isn’t going to solve anything, you know.”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” Louis snaps right back, folding his own arms across his chest. “I’m doing this whether you help me or not, and you’re the only person I’m willing to tell where I’m going.”

This is Louis’ only chance to give Harry his freedom for real. He thought he’d done it when he’d freed him from being a slave, but this is going to be the thing that truly sets Harry free. Louis is sure of it.

He just needs a little bit of help to accomplish it.

Liam sighs. “Louis – ” he starts.

Louis holds up a hand, cutting him off. Liam is practically his brother – they were all but raised together, Liam’s mother watching over the both of them while they were children, and there’s no one Louis trusts more to have his back, but if it comes right down to it Louis is going to make it an order.

Liam’s always had difficulties not following direct orders, even when they come from Louis.

“I’m doing this, Liam,” Louis says firmly. “And you can either be the only person who knows where I’ve gone or you can be in the dark as well. What is it going to be?”

Liam sighs again.

 

It’s quiet, thirty miles outside of the castle. Peaceful. The nearest village is forty-five minutes away by horse, and Louis brought enough supplies to last him for the next three weeks. The house is smaller than Louis is used to, quaint, but he doesn’t mind. He can’t remember the last time he was alone like this.

Not that he’s entirely alone. His father would never forgive him if he went somewhere completely on his own, no guard around to put a sword through an intruder, so Kent has been outside since Louis arrived, making rounds of the grounds every so often.

It’s different, though, being alone like this. For the first two days Louis barely does more than sit around staring out windows, letting himself really feel the ache in his chest. He has to keep reminding himself that this is what he wants, that this is the only way for both of them to eventually be happy, even if it takes them a while to get there. It will be better. It has to be.

The ache doesn’t want to fade, though. If anything it gets stronger as the hours pass, and Louis can’t do nothing anymore. He finds ways to pass the time. Goes for a ride, reads a few books from the elaborate library crammed into the small cottage, harvests the vegetables growing in the garden. In a different world it would be a life he could get used to. As a vacation, it’s not the worst thing in the world.

It’s not until the fifth day that things begin to change. Louis steps out of the cottage in the morning dressed for a chilly day of weeding and almost walks directly into Kent.

There’s a look on his face that Louis doesn’t like. He’s known Kent since he was five years old, watching the soldiers train in the dirt on warm summer afternoons, and Kent has never been anything less than honest with him. Tactfully so, but honest. It’s why Louis chose him specifically to accompany him. Kent may not agree with his decisions but he would be hard pressed to say that out loud.

“What is it?” Louis asks warily. His mind immediately goes to thoughts of rival kingdoms and soldiers trampling through the forests, looking for an excuse to start a war. The king’s son would be a good way of doing that.

Kent hesitates for a brief second before he starts talking. “I went into town earlier for some supplies. There’s a rumor going around that there’s a gladiator on his way here, looking for someone. There weren’t any specifics.”

He doesn’t have to add _but_. Louis can hear it in his voice. 

The ache in Louis’ chest doubles. It’s Harry. There’s no doubt that it’s Harry.

“We need to go,” Louis says. He’s so close – just a few more days and then Louis won’t have to run anymore, won’t have to worry about Harry finding him because Harry will have no choice but to give up.

Leaving him behind was the strongest statement Louis could have made. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if Harry ignores it.

 

They ride for six hours until they’ve reached a place four towns over. Night is beginning to fall and Louis’ only two options are to keep going and bunk in the woods or settle in for the night at a hotel in the town.

If he found Louis in the middle of the woods, Louis has no doubt that Harry would make a scene. A big, emotional scene, and Louis doesn’t trust himself enough to be able to say no when it’s just the two of them. Can’t trust himself like that.

Harry wouldn’t make a scene like that in a town full of people. If he does manage to find Louis here, he won’t take that risk. Not when he knows all of the customs and expectations of being the King’s son. Harry wouldn’t risk his chances of Louis actually saying yes to his ridiculous proposal.

Louis books two rooms in the nicest hotel the town has to offer. There are expectations that come along with being royalty, and staying in the best places is one of them, even if it’s a little more high profile than Louis wants to be.

That night, he can’t sleep. The bed is the exact right mix of firm and soft, the linens are clean, the room has been recently dusted, and the fire is warming. There’s nothing wrong with the accommodations.

Tomorrow will make it exactly two weeks since Harry made his announcement. Louis only has to hold out for one more day, two to be on the safe side, and then all of this will be over.

The thought doesn’t do anything to help him sleep.

 

The day passes uneventfully. Louis doesn’t breathe easy until he’s lying in bed that night, hands folded on top of his stomach, staring up at the ceiling.

It’s over, then. Harry hasn’t come for him. It’s over.

He can barely admit to himself that he cries himself to sleep.

 

Louis spends the next day holding court. It’s what he would have done if he had have come here under any other circumstances, and it’s only fair for the people. It’s what his father would have wanted him to do, and Louis is already acutely aware of how disappointed in him he’s going to be. There’s no need to give him more reason for it.

The townspeople have all the usual complaints. Louis hears them out with much more patience than he usually has, uncomfortable in the knowledge that his patience is from having something to distract him from the gaping hole in his chest. It’s something he’ll have to get used to.

He enjoys meeting most of the people. They’re not rich, not interested in the politics of royalty, and want solutions to their problems. They’re average, every day people, and Louis can’t stop thinking about Harry becoming one of them. An average person, someone who will one day be able to forget about the blood on his hands, someone who spends his days working hard and going to bed knowing that he’s accomplished something he can be proud of.

Strangely enough, that’s the thought that starts to make Louis feel better. There will come a day that Harry will barely even think about the lives he’s taken, and Louis won’t be around to see it but it will happen anyway. That’s life – it keeps going.

Louis will keep going.

He’s in the middle of speaking to a farmer about his request for an extra pair of hands to help him reap his harvest when the commotion starts. It’s well past midday and Louis only plans to see a few more people before calling it quits. He started early this morning, and while most of the requests don’t take up too much time, it’s been a long day. The thought of a nice warm bed has been calling his name for the past hour, and it’s not entirely because he wants to curl up and cry into a pillow for a while.

Not entirely.

For a minute, Louis sits frozen in his chair. There’s a lot of things the sudden rush of noise could be, most of them bad, and with only one armed guard around – 

Louis doesn’t have the time to decide what he wants to do before the doors are flying open and someone is striding in. Someone tall and familiar, followed by a bunch of other familiar people.

Louis stays seated, squashing every feeling he has down in his chest. Royalty doesn’t stand when intruders enter a room.

“If you’d like an audience with the prince you’ll have to wait your turn,” Louis says. His hands are already folded together on his lap, and that’s a good thing because he’s pretty sure his fingers are shaking. This can’t be happening. Harry was supposed to give up.

Harry laughs, short and unamused, coming to a stop much closer than appropriate. “I was _supposed_ to have an audience with you yesterday,” he says.

Louis looks at all the people Harry’s brought with him, standing mostly quiet behind him. It’s the entire court, it looks like, his father and Liam included. Dragged all the way here for Harry to make good on his promise.

He can’t let himself look at Harry for too long. The hurt he thought he was handling is back with a vengeance, worse with every glimpse he catches of Harry’s face. All thoughts of being able to handle this fly out of his head. His palms are sweaty, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to say when Harry asks.

“Things don’t always work out the way you plan,” Louis says eventually. His gaze drifts back to Harry standing in front of him, unable to help himself.

Harry’s smile is wry but genuine. His hand goes to his waist to undo his sword belt, allowing it to drop down to the floor carefully. The metal is clean and polished, a sign that Harry hasn’t used it to make his way in here. “No,” he agrees. “They often don’t.”

He seems content to simply stand there, staring at Louis’ face. With him between Louis and the door like this, Louis has few options for what he could do next. He could make a run for it. Harry would chase him, but Louis could run, force the situation to change.

The other option is that Louis sits here and listens to what Harry has to say. Neither option is a good one.

“Do you remember what you told me two weeks ago?” Harry asks abruptly. He’s brought the entire court here to witness this, arranged this entire thing. “You told me that I needed to get you out of my system.”

Louis remembers. He wants to rub at his chest, appease the hurt if only a little. Time feels like it’s been slowed down, and he doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or not. Leaving would mean never seeing Harry again, but staying means - staying means something else entirely.

“I’ve told you a lot of things over the years,” Louis says. It even comes out somewhat steady.

“I’m never going to get you out of my system,” Harry continues like Louis hadn’t said anything. “If I was capable of that I would have left a long time ago, but no matter what else there is between us there’s always going to be love.”

It’s not unexpected. Louis’ breath catches in his throat anyway.

“Because I love you,” Harry presses. “And you love me. You can never deny it properly.”

Louis squeezes his eyes closed. His breath rattles in his lungs. “Harry,” he says, barely more than a whisper.

Harry takes a few steps closer, framing Louis’ face in his hands. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. “Maybe I do like the violence and the chaos and the blood that comes with being a gladiator, but I love you. I love you.”

There’s wetness clinging to Louis’ eyelashes. He knows if he opens his eyes the tears are going to fall, and there’s nothing he can do to stop them.

This is an ocean that’s already raging.

“So where does that leave us, then?” Louis manages, opening his eyes very slowly. What does it matter if other people see him cry right now.

“Your father gave me a job,” Harry says.

Louis blinks. “What?”

Of all the ways he imagined this conversation going, he never thought he’d hear the words _your father gave me a job_. Technically speaking, Harry already _has_ a job. He gets paid for it, he’s not indebted to anyone. He doesn’t need a job.

Technically speaking.

“Head of the guard,” Harry says. “I’ll be in charge of coming up with a training regime for the soldiers, recruiting new ones, going on the occasional mission, planning for attacks. I’ll spend most of my time in the kingdom. I’ll even have an _office_.”

He sounds an equal mix of amused and horrified, and Louis doesn’t need the explanation to know that head of the guard is a well respected position. Powerful.

Mostly doesn’t do any actual fighting.

Harry must see the vaguely horrified look on Louis’ face. “The new training regime is going to involve a lot of me handing people’s arses to them,” he says, and Louis would wish that it doesn’t sound quite so gleeful but then it wouldn’t be Harry. For better or for worse, the violence is part of Harry. He wouldn’t be who he is without it.

“I can’t promise that it’s going to be enough,” Harry says, pressing their foreheads together, blatantly talking to Louis’ mouth now, watching it even though Louis isn’t moving, is barely even breathing. “It’s been a long time since I haven’t - ” he pauses there, clearly aware of their audience listening raptly to ever word. Not that it matters. Louis knows what he was going to say anyway. “ - but it’s worth a shot, right? If it means we get to be together.”

Louis draws in another shaky breath. Everything is spinning much faster than it should be, a little hazy around the edges, and he never thought - he never thought to plan for this. This was never on the table.

He never let himself believe that he could actually _have_ this.

“I’m going to ask you now,” Harry murmurs, mouth tantalizingly close to Louis’, so close it would barely take anything to turn that closeness into a kiss. “Unless you need a minute?”

A minute to breathe. It sounds like a good idea, truth be told. Louis has been shaken off balance a few times before in his life, but nothing like this. And he knows that unless he answers, an actual verbal _yes_ , that Harry is going to do it. He’s going to ask.

Louis just - doesn’t say anything.

Harry releases Louis’ face and takes two steps back, going down on one knee slow enough that Louis could open his mouth and say something to stop him.

He still doesn’t.

The slow slide onto one knee feels endless and inescapable. Louis watches every single second of it, transfixed, until Harry’s all the way down. Then Harry opens his mouth.

“The first time I saw you, you were sitting in the stands with your father, doing a shitty job of pretending to pay attention, and I’m pretty sure you never even actually looked at me, but I almost lost that fight, I was so distracted looking at you,” Harry says, and it’s so unexpected that it actually shocks a laugh out of Louis. “It says something about me that I like having to work for something I want, I know, but I’ve wanted you since the day I first saw you and it’s only gotten worse since then.”

Louis’ hands are still trembling and he can’t stop them.

“It’s not just because I think you’re the most attractive person in the world,” Harry continues, a hint of that smug smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s part of it, don’t get me wrong, but there’s so much more to you, so much of you that no one but me has ever gotten to see, and I love every single bit of you, would follow you to hell and back again without question. No matter how many times you would try to have me banished for it.

“I love you,” Harry says, still down on one knee, one of his hands slipping into a fold in his chiton. Going for a ring. “No matter what happens today I know you’ve got no choice but to believe that, and that means a lot to me.”

Harry’s got the ring in hand now, and Louis can’t look at it. He wants to know what it looks like with a desperate intensity he’s almost never felt before, and definitely never felt about an inanimate object. But he can’t stop looking at Harry’s face, the raw, open honesty on it, can’t tear his eyes away.

“Louis William Tomlinson, you’re the love of my goddamn life, will you marry me?” Harry asks.

Louis breathes, blinks, and thinks about the past three years, about the first time they met, about every time Harry’s cornered him in a dark hallway somewhere, about everything they’ve been through together, about all the feelings he has about Harry that he’s never had for anyone else, so much more than just love. Pain and anger and helplessness, hopelessness, despair, desire, maybe even a little bit of hatred sometimes too. Trying to stay apart hasn’t been working, but Louis knows even as he thinks it that it can’t be the reason for his answer. Whatever he says, it has to be because it’s what he wants. What he really wants.

He breathes in again, looking past Harry at his father, standing there with hope and pride on his face, and then back at Harry. Thinks, a little wryly, _if it was anyone but you_.

“Yes,” he says.

Harry doesn’t even bother with the pretense of putting the ring on Louis’ finger, just surges up off his knee and takes Louis’ face back between his hands, kissing him deep. Louis kisses back, helpless against the onslaught, and lets Harry take him to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr](http://crazyupsetter.tumblr.com/)


	3. Epilogue

Later, after they’ve actually made it to a bed, rather than the wall they ended up against during the first round, Louis lies back, trailing his fingers over an old scar on Harry’s shoulder blade, sweaty and exhausted and happy.

Fuck, so fucking happy.

“I thought it would be more romantic,” Louis says. His voice is quiet in the stillness of the room, barely even distracts Harry from mouthing at Louis’ stomach. “When you finally asked.”

Harry doesn’t answer until he’s finished with the patch of skin he’s working on, leaving it wet and vaguely sore. Louis doesn’t mind. “You did, did you,” Harry says, pressing his thumb into the mark he’s just made. He sounds amused.

“I didn’t think you had it in you to not to try to rip my heart out of my chest with your honesty,” Louis says, tangling a hand in Harry’s hair and urging him up, until he’s on top of Louis properly, hot and heavy between his legs. “You know the amount of shit you’ve said to me over the years that’s almost made me cry? And you didn’t even _try_ when you asked me to marry you.”

He’s still a little upset. Not about the surprising lack of romance - more of a general upset about his plan being completely derailed by Harry. Again. For the thousandth time in recent memory.

“Mm,” Harry says, sucking another kiss into the underside of Louis’ jaw, seemingly content to take his time with it. “Know you don’t exactly relish the idea of listening to me say that stuff in front of an audience.” His voice comes out a little gravelly, a lot deep. Louis has always liked the sound of it, and he especially likes the sound of it now.

That’s an acceptable reason, Louis supposes. He really wouldn’t have liked it if Harry had have been overly sappy, and he definitely wouldn’t have lived it down. The way Harry did it was kind of perfect.

Not that Louis would ever tell him that.

“If it had have been just you and me it would have been different,” Harry says, pulling back a bit. “I would have told you that you’re mine just as much as I’m yours, that we _belong_ to each other the way two souls who are destined to be together can. That I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy, that the amount of love I have for you is indescribable. That if I got to spend the rest of my life making you come every day I could die a happy man.”

It’s nothing he hasn’t said before, albeit with some different words. Louis’ cock is hard again, and it’s only partially due to the way Harry’s pinning him to the bed.

Louis fumbles his hand down between their bodies, curling his fingers around Harry’s cock. It’s already most of the way to hard again, silky hot. “If you had have said any of that I don’t know whether I would have tried to go down on you or knock you out.”

Harry’s smile presses against Louis’ mouth as he kisses him again. Louis’ still open from earlier, still wet, but Harry sinks two fingers back into him anyway, slow and curious. “You definitely would have tried to knock me out,” Harry says. Louis closes his eyes and presses back onto Harry’s fingers. It already feels good, Harry’s fingers inside of him, and it’s only going to feel better when there’s more of him inside Louis.

Louis huffs out a somewhat shaky laugh. “Would you have let me?”

He’s already distracted by the fingering he’s getting, and the thought that they’re technically engaged now. It’s a reality he never really expected to be facing, but he’s still happy about it. Things aren’t going to be easy, but they’re going to be _happy_. Louis is pretty sure of that.

“Probably not,” Harry admits, only a little shameless about it as he slips a third finger into Louis. “Would have ended up the same way we do the rest of the time we fight.”

“With me on my back and you trying to fuck me through the mattress?” Louis asks, turning his head obligingly to the side so Harry can bite him a little.

Harry makes a noise, a low, approving one in the back of his throat and flexes his fingers pointedly, brushing against Louis’ prostate. “So tangled up in each other that neither of us can think straight.”

That’s exactly what they are now, so tangled up in each other they can’t even breathe without inhaling the scent of each other, and that’s the way Louis wants to stay for the rest of his life. With one minor alteration.

“Are you going to fuck me any time soon or are you just going to spend the rest of the night fingering me?” Louis demands, sliding his hands up Harry’s back to grip his shoulders.

“Don’t tempt me,” Harry murmurs, scissoring his fingers abruptly. Louis’ inhale turns into a sharp moan. “Could do this all day and you know it.”

He could. After the first time he has much more patience. He never has, because Louis has never let him, but there’s been a few times Louis has let it go on for much longer than he should have. Louis’ attempts to get out of bed when any part of Harry is in him have never been too successful.

“You have the rest of your life to do that,” Louis coaxes, fumbling for Harry’s cock again, unsure of when he’d even let it go, stroking it again, nice and firm. “Right now you should put your cock inside me before I change my mind about marrying you.”

The way Harry’s eyes go dark suggest exactly how far he would go in order to keep Louis from changing his mind. It still gets him to slip his fingers out and coat his cock with a layer of oil, pausing to pull Louis’ left knee up a bit before pushing in.

“I would have told you that every time you walk into a room I feel like something inside of me settles, like it’s at peace knowing that you’re in my line of sight and safe,” Harry says, picking up the thought because he’s never been ashamed of his romantic tendencies.

It’s so distracting, the words Harry’s spouting as he pushes his way back inside Louis’ body. Louis’ fingers curl tighter on Harry’s shoulders, holding on. “Please don’t do this to me right now,” he says, voice cracking, nails leaving welts in Harry’s skin.

“You asked for it,” Harry tells him unsympathetically, pushing in and in and in, inch after inch until he’s finally fully seated, coming to a slow stop. “You literally asked me for it, you can’t complain now that I’m giving you it.”

Well. He’s not wrong. That doesn’t mean that Louis doesn’t have to not put up a protest about it.

“You’re making me feel all warm and squishy inside,” Louis says, curling his fingers around the back of Harry’s neck instead, trying to pull him down for another kiss.

Harry rolls his hips once, long and deep, and Louis makes an even louder noise. “Pretty sure not everything inside you feels squishy,” he says. Louis goes to laugh, except Harry chooses that exact moment to start moving for real, picking up a rhythm that has Louis’ eyes rolling back in his head.

He wants to say something, but for several long minutes all he can do is lie there, edging towards splitting Harry’s skin underneath his nails, listening to Harry murmur all the things he’s ever wanted to say to Louis when Louis has no way of escaping. It feels good, waves of pleasure coursing through his body the way only Harry has ever been able to make him feel, the way only Harry has ever fucked him. There’s something about it that feels _complete_ , and it’s a very strange feeling. A good one, but a strange one.

“You’re my favourite thing in this world,” Harry says, raw honesty at its finest. “I’m going to do right by you.”

He already is, fucking Louis so right, so deep. And maybe it’s the certainty that comes with knowing that no matter what, this man is the only one who’s capable of making him feel like this, happy and complete, or maybe it’s something else. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now except for Harry, Harry’s cock inside of him, the way Harry’s kissing him. The way Harry _loves him_.

Oh fuck, Harry loves him. Louis comes. If Harry were in his head, it would be a little embarrassing.

“I love you,” Louis says, barely even finished coming, clenching down around Harry’s cock as tight as he manage while his muscles still feel all loose and languid.

Harry’s smile has turned a little strained as he chases his own orgasms, thrusts a little less controlled now that Louis has come. “I know,” he says, kissing Louis before he can protest, just a short, brief little thing. “I love you too.”

He does. Louis knows he does. It would have been way too much effort to pursue him for this long if Harry didn’t.

Hearing it still warms a fire in the pit of his belly. Louis clenches up around Harry’s cock again, trying to make it good for him, and lets Harry kiss him with more teeth than tongue until he comes, pulsing deep in Louis’ body.

They stay like that for a few long, blissful minutes afterwards, joined together, neither of them willing to make the first move to part. Everything is sweaty and warm, serene. Happiness bubbles up in Louis’ chest, almost too much to contain.

Eventually, Harry pushes himself up onto his elbows. He doesn’t pull out, not quite yet.

“Prince Louis,” he says, hushed even in the silence of the room, “Did you enjoy the fight?”

Louis still doesn’t know whether this is going to work, whether Harry’s violent nature will be appeased by his new position, whether they’ll be compatible in the light of day where everyone can see them. He knows that he’s happy, that he doesn’t want to hide anymore, that there’s no one out there that is capable of making him feel like Harry does. There’s certainty and uncertainty here like there is in everything else, but Louis has faith. He believes in himself, in Harry, in them. That if they survived everything they’ve been through so far they can survive anything else, as long as they’re together.

They can figure it out. That’s what Louis believes.

He clenches down on Harry’s cock again, despite the fact that it hurts, despite the fact that Harry’s gone mostly soft inside of him, and says, “Who says the fight is over?”

It’s over when Louis says it’s over, and he’s so incredibly far from saying it’s over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr](http://crazyupsetter.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](http://crazyupsetter.tumblr.com/)


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